Important Things
Fleamont Potter could not believe he was actually there. His father mentioning his project to Tiberius Malfoy — the Minister of Magic himself — at an earlier round of the Quidditch World Cup had been bloody embarrassing. But it had somehow worked. A few weeks back, he had received a letter of interest from Abraxas Malfoy, the Minister’s son and joint-owner of Triple I. Now he was following a wrinkled old house-elf down the dimly-lit entrance hallway of the Malfoy Manor near Wiltshire.
He paused just before the door that the house-elf led him to. It was a beautiful door. With dark mahogany wood and a curling silver handle that reminded him of a snake. Which was fitting, he supposed. The Malfoys were known to be a Slytherin family.
The door had a poster pasted onto it. Hastily slapped on the door, as though put there as a prank and then nobody had bothered to remove it. It was the Quidditch national team poster. It was very familiar to him; it was the same poster that was all over the wizarding world. The seven players of the national team, weaving around on brooms, an English flag as the background.
But this one was a little different. It was autographed by every member of the team. Fleamont found himself gaping at it. It had to be worth a fortune.
Snapping his jaw shut, he shook his head, running a hand through his perpetually messy hair and being reminded of why he was there.
A business deal. A very important business deal. On which, the success of his dreams rested.
Alright. Time to get cracking.
Raising his hand, he knocked politely at the door, taking care to avoid rapping his knuckles against the Quidditch poster.
“Come in!” a voice sounded and he gently gripped the handle. It was smooth and cold, just like a snake. He pushed open the door and stepped in. A soft whoosh of air blew out to greet him, along with a scent that stirred up vague memories — but he couldn’t quite grasp at them long enough to recall them.
“Oh,” the voice sounded disappointed when he walked in — and Fleamont Potter felt his dreams shatter. “I thought you were someone else.”
“Oh, er. . . sorry,” he found himself staring at someone who was on the poster he had just been nearly drooling over. Natalie Malfoy, Seeker for the national team, sat in the imposing chair behind the desk. Dressed in black joggers and a red t-shirt supporting the team, her feet (on which she wore only fluffy blue socks adorned with silver Snitches), were kicked up onto the desk. She made for a decidedly relaxed picture, which seemed very contrary to the otherwise austere atmosphere of the room.
He knew Natalie Malfoy was related to the Malfoys who owned Triple I, but he did a double-take anyway, just to make sure it was her. It had to be — he knew what she looked like. He’d seen her in photos, in the Prophet, even at the matches themselves. The witch before him had the same platinum blonde hair, the same stark gray eyes, the same aristocratic features. The only difference now was that she looked a bit bored, and it seemed odd to see her in anything other than Quidditch robes. This, and the half full cup of tea in front of her, was a sudden reminder that she was actually a real person.
“You can come in,” she beckoned him in with a casual hand gesture, as though they were well-acquainted. “Abraxas or my grandmother should be in soon. I’m hanging around for a while before the World Cup.”
“The World Cup, right,” said Fleamont, slowly approaching the desk. The room around him was full of highly polished wood, marble and silver. But he didn’t dare look around, instead kept his attention on the blonde witch behind the desk as though she had demanded it. His knees grew wobbly and sweat beaded along his forehead. He quickly wiped it away into his jet-black hair, not wanting her to see him sweat.
“Got your tickets, already? And want tea or anything?” she offered, dismissively pointing to another house-elf standing obediently beside the desk, holding a tray of tea and biscuits. Fleamont briefly looked around to find the elf that had led him there, but that elf had vanished. His eyes grew distracted by movement and he found himself staring at Natalie Malfoy again. She was spinning her wand around two of her fingers in a smooth motion that was mesmerizing.
He snapped himself out of the trance to respond. “Oh, er, no — I mean, yes, I’ve got my tickets, but no, no tea, thank you — I’m alright. . . .”
Natalie Malfoy studied him for a moment with piercing eyes. Fleamont was still a few paces away from the desk but he stood frozen on the spot under her gaze. He became very aware of his heart, thudding along in his chest at a rhythm he had never experienced before. He briefly wondered if the house-elf that brought him to this room knew it only contained the national team Seeker, not the owners of Triple I. Was he even supposed to be in this room? This felt like some sort of test.
“You can sit,” she pointed at the nearest chair in front of the desk. Fleamont stared at it in confusion before her words made sense.
“Oh, er, right,” he said, his legs somehow managing to lead him to the chair. He nearly fell into it, straightening himself up and adjusting his hair, his robes, his hair again until he heard her snickering quietly. Warmth rushed to his face and his hands grew clammy. This was ridiculous, he tried to rationalize away his reactions. She was just a Quidditch player, right? He had come here to make a business deal, not act starstruck over a Quidditch player. A famous, respected, well-known, attractive, pureblooded, insanely rich Quidditch player. . . .
“Is it windy outside?” she asked conversationally, peering at him over the desk with a sharp gaze.
Fleamont got the feeling she already knew the answer to this question. “Er, no — a bit nippy, but dead still — er, why do you ask?”
“Your hair,” she raised a hand and ran it through her platinum blonde hair that was characteristic of the Malfoy line. When she continued, it was like she was giving him top-secret information. He gripped the armrests of the chair, spellbound. He had to hear what she had to say. “It’s awfully messy, you know. . . if you’re here to see my grandmother — or even Abraxas — neither of them are going to be too impressed with your. . . appearance. . . just so you know. . . .”
Warmth flooded his body with her words, as though she had just given him the key to success with his current venture. Natalie Malfoy was a lovely witch. It struck him that he liked her very much, and he found himself beaming at her.
“Oh. . . funny you mention it,” he unconsciously started ruffling his hair. “I’m actually here because of it, believe it or not.”
Natalie kicked her feet off the desk, pushing her cup of tea away and leaning forward in the seat as if to get a better look at him. He found himself mimicking her actions, holding his breath in anticipation.
When she gave him a slight smirk, he realized he was still beaming at her. She laughed and said, “I forgot to ask your name.”
Taken aback at this, he leapt to his feet to properly introduce himself. He hadn’t realized he had forgotten to do so — he felt like they were already close friends. Hoping he didn’t look like a complete fool, Fleamont stepped forward and extended a hand across the desk.
“Er, I’m Fleamont — it’s funny, I know — er, Fleamont Potter. . . .”
“I don’t do handshakes,” she told him and he immediately dropped his hand, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment, thinking he should have known that she didn’t do handshakes — it had to have been mentioned in some article about her somewhere. “I’m Natalie Malfoy.”
“I know,” he blurted out and sank back into the chair, not sure if he should be feeling relief or regret at being unable to shake her hand. “Er, sorry, it’s just-”
“My face is everywhere, I know,” she laughed and reverted back to their original conversation topic. “But why did you come to talk to Triple I about your hair? That’s certainly not the usual business that goes on here.”
“Well. . . my hair’s a mess, as you noticed,” he hoped he didn’t sound as stupid as he thought he did in his head. “And I. . . well, I’ve developed a. . . potion — to sort of, er, tame it. And I’d like to market it to sell — I just need-”
“A steady supply of potions ingredients,” she finished his sentence, leaning back in the chair with a grin. “Hopefully you’ve come to the right place.”
“Yes, hopefully,” he said eagerly. He didn’t know if Natalie Malfoy had any say in what her family’s company did but maybe she could put a good word in for him. He already felt like she had given him a sense of buoyant optimism about the endeavor.
“So. . . does this potion actually work?” she asked, taking a sip of tea. Another reminder that she was a real person, not the mythical celebrity the national team players seemed like.
Fleamont straightened in his seat, reaching into his robes’ pocket and pulling out the small container he had prepared for today.
“Yes,” he said, overcome with the sudden desire to impress her, he held up the container for her to see. “It’s more of a. . . lotion really. I’ve brought a small sample with me to show-”
“Show me,” she demanded, resting her arms on the desk and staring at him with so much ferocity, he couldn’t look away. He knew he couldn’t disobey her, but this was not going as he had planned it. The feeling that this was some sort of test came to the front of his mind again.
“Well, er, I don’t have that much, I’d hoped to demonstrate it to, er, Mrs. Malfoy or-”
“They’ll be along,” she dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. “I’d like to see it.”
“Er, alright then,” he said, unscrewing the lid of the container and scooping out some of the thick lotion. He could feel her eyes on him the entire time. He wasn’t sure if it thrilled or frightened him.
“I call it Sleekeazy’s,” he began his pitch, figuring Natalie Malfoy was better than no Malfoy and wondering if he had passed the test.
“Hold on,” she stopped him, raising a hand and tilting her head as though hearing something he could not. Fleamont paused, afraid to move a muscle as he sat before her, a glob of what he was betting everything on quivering in his hand.
The door opened with a small click. Fleamont snapped his head over to watch another pale blond enter.
“Abraxas!” cried Natalie with delight. “You just made it. Potter here is about to demonstrate his potion lotion thing.”
“Ah, yes,” Abraxas Malfoy crossed the room and took the seat just beside Fleamont with a leisurely air. “I was hoping for a demonstration of this. Let’s see it then.”
“Right,” Fleamont hastily nodded, the presence of one of the owners of Triple I relieved him — he hoped he’d passed.
“As I was saying — I call it Sleekeazy’s. . . its purpose is to tame and style hair. . . particularly bushy or unruly hair. . . which neither of you can relate to. . . .”
Natalie laughed at this and Abraxas cracked a small smile. Excitement flooded Fleamont as he began to apply the potion to his own unruly hair. He had practiced so often he could do it perfectly without the need of a mirror.
There was silence until he finished applying it, using their faces as judgement. Though Abraxas remained stoic, Natalie looked somewhat impressed.
“Wow, it worked,” she said with a laugh.
Fleamont couldn’t help himself, he grinned, feeling exhilarated by her remark.
“What are the ingredients, exactly?” asked Abraxas, turning it into what it was supposed to be. A business deal.
“Petroleum jelly, Asian Dragon Hair-”
“Oh, I almost forgot,” interrupted Abraxas and he turned to Natalie, making Fleamont sink back into his chair. “Riddle dropped by — and he looks serious about something. But I think Grandmother took to lecturing him.”
Delight blossomed over Natalie’s face. It almost made Fleamont want to laugh and do a little jig, despite him feeling completely at the behest of the Malfoy family. But her delight quickly turned to confusion, which made Fleamont grow uneasy. He wondered who this Riddle character was and why he could produce such a wild change in her. She scrambled up from the desk and bounded out the room without giving them another glance. Fleamont couldn’t help but stare, not sure what to think — or even what to feel. He had certainly felt a lot of things since walking into the room.
Abraxas cleared his throat and Fleamont jerked his head back towards the owner of Triple I, taking a deep breath and continuing.
“Ah, yes, er, as I was saying — petroleum jelly, Asian Dragon Hair, Gomas Barbadensis. . . .”
Natalie darted down the corridor, away from the study and to the lounge at the end of the hall, which was used for more intimate family matters.
She peeked into the room to find that Domitia Malfoy was indeed lecturing a deferential-looking Lord Voldemort. Natalie took a moment to study him. The heir of Slytherin sat on the couch with his hands folded neatly in his lap as the elderly witch ranted. His hair was darker than Fleamont Potter’s and fell with a much more natural elegance, which gave her a visceral satisfaction that she could not explain. She understood what Abraxas had meant about him looking serious. There was an air of tension visible from the stiffness of his shoulders, as if Domitia was interrupting a crucial plan of his. But she hadn’t a clue what it could be.
“-racing around the world after random bits of whatever magical foolishness Burke is pining over at the moment is beyond me. Don’t know why my granddaughter helped you get that job. Don’t act shocked about that, I know you two are in cahoots with everything you do. You should be working for Triple I! Not Borgin and Burkes. It’s a shame, I know I could put you to good use, better use than my swindler of an Uncle. And you’d enjoy it too, much more fulfilling than convincing some pathetic scoundrel to let go of Slytherin’s favorite dish rag or whatever. And you’d be making twice — three times the money! And I don’t know what sort of old ring you’ve given my granddaughter to wear around her neck like some ancient trophy but I hope you plan on getting your life together before marrying her if you planned on doing that because you certainly do not have any blessing from me if you don’t-”
At Domitia’s words, her hand had instinctively flown up to clutch at the ring around her neck. It pulsed under her fingers, and as if sensing her touch, Tom Riddle looked over to make eye contact with her. She dropped her gaze immediately, overcome by a sudden feeling of hysteria. That the frail, elderly Domitia Malfoy was verbally chewing out someone who had murdered his remaining family and terrorized Hogwarts with a basilisk suddenly seemed incredibly funny.
Clearing her throat, she stepped into the room. “Grandmother,” mumbled Natalie, trying to restrain herself from laughing. “That Potter bloke is here. He’s demonstrating his hair potion lotion thing to Abraxas right now.”
“Another poor soul hoping to get rich,” sighed Domitia. She cast one last steely glance at Tom Riddle before bustling out of the room, making sure to snap the door shut behind her.
Once her footsteps retreated down the hall, Natalie kept her eyes on the dark green carpet that furnished the room. The color always made her think of the submarine atmosphere in the Slytherin common room. Silence filled the air as she bit down on her lip and tried not to burst into laughter. She could feel his gaze scouring her with its usual ferocity and wondered why this visit of his felt fundamentally different.
“Why-” she couldn’t help a giggle and screwed her eyes shut. “Why. . . are you here?”
She heard him stand and walk towards her until he was close enough that she could hear his heartbeat and the whooshing of air in and out of his lungs as the horcrux around her neck started ticking faster than usual. He didn’t speak until she opened her eyes and peered up at him.
“To ask you a question,” he grabbed hold of the silver chain around her neck, tugging the ring out from under her robes and swinging it over her neck until it lay in his hands.
A violent anger erupted in her gut at the sudden loss of the ring and she instinctively stepped forward to snatch it back. He moved it out of her reach and tucked the ring into his pocket, chain and all. When it vanished, she felt the same thing she’d feel if the opposing Seeker grabbed the Snitch before she could. Like he’d stolen something that belonged to her. Except it hadn’t been stolen by the other team — it had been stolen by him.
Things were no longer funny. In fact, nothing in the world had ever been funny, and nothing in the world would ever be funny again.
Natalie found herself staring at the pocket the ring had vanished into, voices screaming in her head and her heart pounding as the room seemed to spin. Every muscle in her body clenched up in shock. It was a ruthless act of treachery. How dare he. She would have been less devastated if he had used the Cruciatus Curse on her. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to jump on him and wrestle the ring back, or drop to her knees and beg him to hand it over.
She didn’t understand why he had taken it from her. Hadn’t he said he wanted it with her? What had changed? Did he think it was no longer safe with her, especially with the World Cup coming up? What was he going to do with it now? Give it to someone else? That prospect was sickening.
She finally looked up to send him a vicious glare. There was a fascinating look on his face, but she ignored it over what felt like an extreme act of betrayal. All she was aware of was the vicious spinning inside her.
“Ask me what?” she spat out. “What could you possibly have to ask me?”
His hand returned to the pocket. He retrieved the ring hanging around the chain and held it back out to her.
“Marry me.”